


Devoured By Their Passions

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Belly Kink, Feeding, Food, M/M, Stuffing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 08:34:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4297914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme prompt: "Dorian is getting fat, and his LI is loving it. Dorian is also loving it, but he wouldn't admit it, would he?" Kaaras Adaar loves that Dorian's just a bit softer around the middle these days, and with enough effort, he has a feeling that he can make Dorian love it, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devoured By Their Passions

**Author's Note:**

> It's a touch short but I might add a second chapter at some point.

Kaaras notices for the first time on an early spring morning. It's the first warm morning of the year, well and truly beautiful, and they've spent hours tangled up in sun-dappled sheets, trading kisses and laughter like nothing else in the world matters. But the world turns on, and nothing lasts forever. At last, Dorian pushes him away (with one last kiss—for luck, they tease in the same breath) and slips away, leaving Kaaras sprawled in bed watching him with wistful eyes.

“You ought to come back to bed,” he sighs, gaze trailing over Dorian. The man is so beautiful that sometimes it makes his chest ache—so absolutely exquisite, like something out of a dream. He lets out a soft, frustrated grunt as Dorian tugs a tunic over his bare chest. “Whatever you have to do isn't nearly as important as you climbing back on top of me.”

Dorian pins him with a mock frown, the perfect picture of indignation, but his face softens into a smile. In the past few months, as they've learned to bare themselves to one another, some of his defensive snark has been replaced by a tenderness that makes Kaaras's heart flutter like a giddy child. “You know I would if I could, amatus. But I'm a busy man. The public needs me.”

“I need you,” Kaaras insists, grinning. “Forget the public.”

Dorian laughs—except that it's more of a huff, breathless. He's managed to get his pants up after a fair bit of yanking, but he can't seem to get them to fasten. He takes a deep breath, sucks in the curve of his stomach, and at last jerks his pants up the final inch.

 _Oh_ , Kaaras realizes. _Huh. That's...different_.

It's not that he hasn't noticed that Dorian's been a bit...softer, lately, in the months since Corypheus's defeat. It's just that it's happened so gradually. And anyway, all humans are soft, aren't they? But this is the first time he's noticed Dorian struggling with his clothing like this, the first time it's struck him just how much Dorian's changed, and he can't help the ideas that suddenly flood his mind.

Dorian clears his throat. This time his glare seems serious. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing! Nothing,” Kaaras insists. He lifts his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Just you. Anyone ever tell you that you're beautiful?”

Dorian rolls his eyes, but he can't hide his smile. “Only you, every bloody day. Don't you ever get sick of your own voice?”

“I never get sick of you.”

“Shut up,” Dorian declares, grin on his face, and he marches out of their room.

Kaaras watches him go. It isn't long before his idle hand slips between his legs, and he groans and closes his eyes, lip tugged between his teeth and cock snug in his hand, mind thoroughly fixed on the image of Dorian's gut pushing out over the top of his trousers.

*

They have dinner in their room that night. It was Kaaras's idea, and he spent the day planning it. (It's really remarkable how much free time an Inquisitor has when he's not...inquisiting. And when he happens to be very good at avoiding Cullen and Josephine.) The servants have been instructed to bring each course one at a time, and when they arrive with the wine and the leek tarts Kaaras spent all day baking himself, Dorian's eyes light up.

“Well! This is fancy, isn't it?”

“I thought we could use a little romance.” Kaaras smiles, dismisses the servants with a soft murmur, and fills Dorian's glass to the brim. “You've been so busy.”

“Yes, well, writing angry letters to every last person in Tevinter keeps a man busy.” Dorian reaches for a tart and pauses, fingers half an inch away. “May I?”

“Dig in. I insist.” Kaaras lifts a tart to his own lips, taking small, delicate bites, watching Dorian closely. Dorian has always been so restrained, so careful, but not tonight—and not lately. Maybe it's just because he's less stressed, now that the end of the world doesn't feel quite so pressing, but whatever the reason, Dorian's moved on to his second tart with a wild abandon he never had before. Kaaras pushes the plate just an inch closer to him.

“Did you make these? They're divine,” Dorian observes, licking his fingers clean. “To think, a Fereldan who knows how to cook! I never would have dreamed of such a thing once upon a time.”

Kaaras laughs, a fond rumble. “One of my countless secret talents. Here, have the last tart.” He offers it up; Dorian eyes him warily for only a second before accepting.

“Mm. Absolutely outstanding. I hope the rest of the meal isn't a massive letdown.” He waits for Kaaras to refill his glass before lifting it to his lips again.

“It won't be,” Kaaras promises, taking a small sip from his own glass. He rings the silver bell at his side, alerting the servant waiting in the hall to go fetch the second course, and leans forward with a smile to brush a crumb from the corner of Dorian's mouth. “I tried to come up with a menu you would enjoy. I want you to eat to your heart's content. You're softer lately. I like that.”

Dorian almost chokes on his wine. He grabs at a napkin, coughing and sputtering, before dabbing at his lips with a panicked horror in his eyes. “I—I don't—I—have you ever heard of _tact_?”

“What? You are. And I do. Here, finish my tart for me.”

“I most certainly am not!” Dorian hesitates for only a second before snatching the tart out of Kaaras's hand with an indignant flourish. “And I'll thank you to not make such claims!”

Kaaras frowns, bemused—and then the servants step through the door, toting a steaming jug of rich, creamy potato soup, transformed from humble, common fare into a dish Kaaras knows Dorian will adore thanks to a handful of secret herbs and spices. And, of course, an obscene amount of butter and cream.

“Thank you,” Kaaras tells the shy boy filling their bowls, his gentle voice easing the shaking of the lad's hands; he fills Dorian's bowl to the brim, encouraged by Kaaras's quiet insistence, before he bows and leaves. The room is silent for a moment, and then Kaaras smiles. “Well? Eat up, love.”

Dorian's full lips are parted in a scowl that's really more of a pout; Kaaras entertains the idea of pushing him to the ground and kissing the pout away for just a second, but he decides that maybe that can wait just a bit longer. Finally, Dorian grabs his spoon and points it accusingly at Kaaras. “I am not _softer_. I'll have you know that I am a sterling example of masculine perfection.”

Kaaras takes another sip of wine, steel-blue eyes locked on Dorian's own brown ones, still narrowed in dramatic display. “You certainly are. Are you going to eat your soup?”

“I—well, I—yes, of course I am,” Dorian huffs. He tastes one small spoonful—and then his eyes widen despite himself. “Maker, that's...astounding. You are a culinary force to be reckoned with.”

“I know.” Kaaras grins. “And I want you to finish every last bit of it for me, won't you?”

Dorian pauses, suddenly remembering that he's supposed to be upset. “I will do no such thing. What, are you trying to fatten me up? Are you going to try and eat me, you big handsome brute?”

“I'd rather fuck you, to be perfectly honest.” He chuckles and shrugs. “Deny it all you want, but your waistline isn't what it used to be. And I mean that in the best way possible. I've spent all day too aroused to think straight at the thought alone.”

Dorian looks suspicious, but he finishes another spoonful of soup with a slurp so lewd that it has to be purposeful. “What do you mean, aroused? Surely not at—at the idea of me letting myself go, if I was, which I'm not.”

“Aroused at the idea of your belly, your hips—my delicate little human, all soft around the edges.” He licks his lips and swallows hard when Dorian takes another bite. “You know, I brought myself off twice this morning just thinking about coming all over your little belly. But I suppose that's too vulgar for the dinner table.”

“Er—perhaps just a bit,” Dorian says, sounding faint; he looks paler than usual but for the roses blooming in his cheeks. “Not that I'm complaining, mind you. So, this dinner isn't quite benevolent, then?”

“It's a tad selfish,” Kaaras admits. He shakes his head. “But I couldn't help myself. You have no idea how desperate I am. The thought's consumed me in the span of a day.”

“Well, I won't play along,” Dorian sniffs. “I have no interest in putting on weight just for your depraved amusement.”

“Just this meal,” Kaaras begs. “Please. Eat what I've prepared for you. Just one night and maybe I'll be able to get these ideas out of my head.”

Dorian raises a brow. “Elaborate on those ideas of yours, please.”

Kaaras watches as Dorian lifts the bowl to his lips and takes a sip directly from the rim; it has to be a taunt, he thinks, and the idea is enough to stir up a sudden throbbing between his legs. “I want to watch you stuff yourself on food I've made for you, and I want to see you eat and eat until your belly is all swollen—” His breath catches as Dorian takes another long swig of soup. “Until you're all tender and sore and sensitive, and then I want to take you with my hands on your belly before I come all over your ripe little gut. And then I want to do it again the next night, and the next, until you're getting fatter every day.” He clears his throat and shakes his head, trying to lift the fog from his mind, but the sight of a distinctive aroused bulge beneath Dorian's tight trousers does little to clear his head.

“I see,” Dorian says, slowly, slightly hoarse. “Well. I'm not going to get _fat,_ I'll have you know. But...just this once, I can play your little game, amatus.”

“Please,” Kaaras says. He doesn't mean for the word to sound as desperate as it does, but it rolls off his tongue as an eager plea. Dorian watches him for a second longer and then raises the bowl again. He sucks the soup down, eager and reckless, and Kaaras can't keep himself from moaning incoherently as he watches.

*

By the time the servants bring dessert, Dorian is breathing heavily, one hand on his distended stomach, trousers straining against the swell of his gut. He's devoured more than Kaaras ever thought a human could hold, almost every bite of the past six full platters, and he's undeniably stuffed past any reasonable limit. Kaaras doesn't think that Dorian has ever looked lovelier than he does in his moment, eyelashes fluttering, lips parting in a practically-obscene groan of pain and desire as Kaaras lifts a forkful of cake to his mouth.

“I'm not sure I can eat another bite.”

“I know you can,” Kaaras presses, and he watches as Dorian obeys, lips closing around the fork. The cake is just as rich and buttery as all the courses that came before, recipes carefully adjusted with one specific ulterior motive in mind, and Kaaras thinks that he could come without so much as touching himself if he dwells too long on the thought of the weight that will cling to Dorian even once this bloating fades away.

“I really don't think—mm,” Dorian moans around the fork, objections slipping away with another mouthful. The seams of his trousers voice their own objection with a creak, threatening to tear; Kaaras only increases his pace, feeding Dorian faster, watching the straining button of his pants.

Dorian shudders. He's wrapped up in Kaaras's arms now, back pressed against his chest, unable to sit up by himself any longer, holding his own aching belly as if he can keep it from bloating further even as he devours the cake single-handedly.

The cake is gone before either of them can believe it, and Kaaras drops the plate and fork with a groan. “That was—that was incredible, love. Maker, I don't think I've ever wanted to fuck you this badly.”

“I can tell,” Dorian gasps, and even in this state, he manages to grind himself back against Kaaras's hard cock in a way that proves that, yes, he certainly _can_ tell. “So fuck me, why don't you?”

Kaaras shudders, wordless, and pushes Dorian out of his lap. Dorian gasps and catches himself on his hands and knees; the curve of his gut bumps against the floor when Kaaras claims him with a heavy hand on his back, and Dorian lets out a moan at the flood of sensation from his oversensitive stomach. Kaaras fumbles clumsily with his trousers, tugging out his cock with one hand and ripping Dorian's pants off with his other hand.

“Those were my favorite trousers!” Dorian pants, still managing to sound indignant even in the most compromising of positions, Kaaras's hard cock bumping against his ass.

“They wouldn't fit after tonight anyway,” Kaaras rumbles. He can't think straight—his head is spinning, everything vaguely red, lost in a primal sort of lust that's not so different from the battlefield—and he knows he won't be able to last long. He barely remembers to reach up into the dresser to pull out the corked bottle they keep their, and his fingers shake as he yanks out the stopper and fills his palm with oil.

“Would you hurry up already?” Dorian snaps. Kaaras grunts, half a laugh and half nothing more than wild, animal desperation, and runs his wet hand along the length of his cock.

“Shut up,” he suggests, and Dorian complies, right up until his soft yelp as Kaaras presses against him. No amount of time and practice makes it easy to take Kaaras, his cock just as immense as the rest of him, and Dorian can't help a keening cry at the exquisite blend of pleasure and pain as Kaaras fills him one slow inch at a time.

Kaaras gasps when he's at last sheathed inside of Dorian, pausing for a long moment as Dorian struggles to accommodate him, stroking the swell of his belly with one massive hand.

"You're such a pretty little thing," he groans, slowly pulling out and then thrusting back in, more forceful with every passing second. Dorian can't respond, oversensitive and overstimulated, reduced to nothing more than a series of whines and pleas as he arches into Kaaras with every thrust. 

Kaaras can feel the pressure building dangerously fast, pent-up passion right on the brink of bursting loose, but he can't think clearly. His grip tightens on Dorian with each minute; his labored grunts and breaths mingle with Dorian's soft whimpers and moans, filling the room. Dorian is so incredible, so _perfect_ that he can barely stand it, soft hips and taut belly, tangled hair and glistening bronze skin, so small and fragile and gorgeous beneath him—

He can't pull out in time, and when he empties himself inside Dorian, the buttons on Dorian's tunic come flying off at last.


End file.
